Species generally become rare before they become extinct — to feel no surprise at the rarity of a species, and yet to marvel greatly when the species ceases to exist, is much the same as to feel no surprise at sickness, but, when the sick man dies, to wonder and to suspect that he died by some deed of violence” Charles Darwin in the Origin of Species.

It is July of 2008, and every eye in the ancient warrior land of Bharatpur looks towards the cloud-laden skies; each lip murmurs the same silent prayer. Will Lord Indra, the rain god, finally forgive the errant politicians who wittingly sought the death of the beloved Keoladeo Ghana and shower her munificence on a land parched for over half a decade? The gods do not disappoint, the heavens open and a thirsty earth drinks and drinks till she can no more.

Pools that have lain empty for so long begin to fill, bringing with it the hopes of a million birds, who had forsaken their right to give birth, to perpetuate their lineage. Their right to live. Openbills arrive in droves colonising the Kadams. Darters, Ibis, herons, egrets, and cormorants all follow. Squabbles breakout as each of them fight for a prime piece of property. Jacanas sprout long tails and lay eggs on floating leaves and the Sarus dances for the pure joy of it. Paradise has returned to the Garden of Eden. Soon, visitors from faraway lands will come to seek food and shelter and myriad wings will cover the waters of Bharatpur.

I first went to Bharatpur when I was six years old and perhaps have visited it over a hundred times since. Even at that early age, I can clearly recall seeing over 70 Siberian Cranes, which were once the stars of Bharatpur . By 2002, they had dwindled to a meager three, and then there were none. We took it as an ominous sign, a grim foreboding of things to come. The rains deserted Bharatpur in 2004 and politicians, greedy for votes, diverted water into the fields of their constituents. The Ajan Bund, fed by the fecund waters of the Gambhir and Banganga rivers, lay empty. The then Chief Minister of Rajasthan declared people, not parks, were her priority.

I wrote in my diary, after a visit to the park in April 2005 — “Summer takes on a whole new meaning. Keoladeo has weathered many droughts, but I have never seen it so burnt before. Water levels have turned critical. Dead fish are everywhere. The otters have left. Each day brings new hope that waters will be released from the Ajan Bund. No such luck. The 6,000 feral cattle consume what the sputtering pumps churn up. It is the summer of discontent.

Matter went from bad to worse, consistent low monsoons, along with water politics turned this once verdant land into a virtual graveyard. Fishing cats disappeared and turtles lay thrashing in diminishing pools. From the nearly 400 species that the park boasted of, the numbers crashed to 48 that year, and the park that saw over several hundred of thousands birds in a normal season, now barely held 4,000.”

Needless to say the immediate economy, centred around the park collapsed: The hotels were empty and the rickshaw drivers starved. The initial reaction to save the Ghana was as usual knee-jerk. Spluttering tube-wells that weakly regurgitated water were installed, which the feral cattle lapped up. A foolish plan to draw water through a pipeline from the Chambal river was scoffed by those who knew better. The water that would come all the way from Chambal would be inert and no real use to the park. More catastrophic was the problem of Prosopis juliflora, an exotic and invasive species that rapidly spreads, hampering the growth of other native species like Salvadora persica. Vegetation of the park started changing and with that some of the raptors and owls found their traditional hunting grounds run-over by this pernicious weed.

Bharatpur was dead. So bad was the situation that there were fears that the wetland would lose its World Heritage Status. If the park was to be regained, it was essential to rid the park of the prosopis. A monumental task, with no precedent. An innovative plan that benefited the local villagers was drawn up and the WWF pitched in financially. Through eco-development committees formed in villages surrounding the park, families were allotted plots of land from which they would clear the weed, which they could use as fuel or sell. It was a great success and about eight km of the park was cleared, and nearly one lakh quintals of wood was extracted. Many paid off old debts and made pucca houses from the money earned by selling the wood.

Fortunately, in 2008, the rain gods obliged and some discreet politics, plus co-ordination with district administration saw water being released, in three phases, from Ajan. With new plans being drawn up for a permanent and uninterrupted supply water to be available, the park was well on its way to regaining its former glory.

I have visited Bharatpur, several times since and am pleased to report that it is now back to its pristine glory, with permanent water supply ensured.

The first step towards consolidating the Bharatpur inheritance today must surely involve a return to the wisdom of the past, inherent in the 18th century wisdom of Raja Suraj Mal of Bharatpur who created the Ajan Bund and which was articulated 200 years before him by Francis Bacon: “Nature, to be commanded, must be obeyed”.

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